


La Clase de Espanol

by Acrylicdemon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bad Spanish, Chinese Food, Fluff, M/M, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 15:52:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8062621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acrylicdemon/pseuds/Acrylicdemon
Summary: “Describe yourself using at least five adjectives! ¡En español!” Coach Holden says while writing a generic list of adjectives on the board. Stiles knows he can do better. There’s a creeper wolf he knows that knows many, many languages, there’s no way he doesn’t know Spanish. He’s heard Derek speak Spanish before. Hell, he’s heard Derek confess he speaks Spanish. He will be damned if he doesn’t get a 105 and/or a smiley face on this paper.





	

**Author's Note:**

> yall i done fucked up. i only originally posted half the story, so if this looks familiar- yeah.

It starts when Stiles is in Spanish class, la clase de español. The very first day of Spanish class is the very same day he stopped trusting Derek.

“Describe yourself using at least five adjectives! ¡En español!” Coach Holden says while writing a generic list of adjectives on the board. Stiles knows he can do better. There’s a creeper wolf he knows that knows many, many languages, there’s no way he doesn’t know Spanish. He’s heard Derek speak Spanish before. Hell, he’s heard Derek confess he speaks Spanish. He will be damned if he doesn’t get a 105 and/or a smiley face on this paper. He sends a quick text to Derek and not even a minute later they have a curry date at seven in Derek’s loft.

That’s how he finds himself in Derek’s kitchen at seven that evening, holding the naan up as a peace offering as he traipses in and sets his bag down on the chair next to the couch. Stealthily, he takes out his homework and sits at the counter,   
twiddling his thumbs. Derek looks at the naan, then back at him.

“What do you need, Stiles?”

Stiles laughs weakly, rubbing his neck nervously as he figures out how to approach the subject. Figuring it’s better to bite the bullet, what comes out of his mouth is, “Sooooo, Derek, been speaking a lot of Spanish lately?”

Derek raises an eyebrow as he looks at the paper. “That depends. Have you been going to all of the pack and asking them to do your homework?”

Stiles’ mouth falls open and he gasps, clutching at his chest. “My aching heart! Derek, I could only trust you with my homework!” 

Derek stares at him, hands crossed over his chest as he looks at Stiles expectantly.

“And you’re the only person I know that can actually speak Spanish.”

“Absolutely not,” Derek says as he puts the naan on the table. “You’re capable of cracking open a dictionary. I’ve seen your phone and I know there’s a translator on there somewhere.” Dusting off his hands, he looks curiously at Stiles. “I thought your   
dad knew Spanish?”

“I’m pretty sure all he knows is hola. Please, Derek, just one word,” Stiles groans, holding his blank Spanish homework up to Derek, who is now stirring chicken curry with his back squarely to Stiles. “Translators are so unreliable, and I haven’t gotten around to getting a dictionary yet!”

He hears Derek snort, grabbing the sliced-up chicken as Stiles stares holes into the back of his head. “Amazing,” he supplies, not looking up from the pot. “Molestoso.”

Stiles jots it down on the paper, smirking. “Keep ‘em coming, baby!”

“Travieso. Antipatico. Rubio.” The chicken is slowly being stirred in with every word Derek supplies. The list goes on, and Stiles even manages to write a full-on Spanish paper about himself in MLA format before Derek’s even done with the curry.

After he’s filled the paper up with the words Derek had given him, he throws the homework down on the coffee table and lies down on the couch. They eat dinner and Derek teaches him the Spanish alphabet. Stiles cleans up the plates while Derek gets ready for work. When he comes back out, Stiles is on the couch watching White Chicks.

“Gracias,” he sighs, content. “I’m so gonna ace Spanish 1.”

Derek grins, grabbing his car keys and shrugging on his jacket. “Don’t mention it,” he calls as he walks out of the loft, on his way to the graveyard shift he works. He can hear Stiles singing to Vanessa Carlton from his car.

The next day, he hears Stiles’ jeep, but Stiles doesn’t come in. He tapes something to the door, storms away angrily, and drives away. Derek goes to see what he put on the door and he almost passes out laughing at the homework taped to his door. It had a big fat zero on it and a note from the teacher saying he wanted him in guidance ASAP. There’s a post-it note attached to it, reading “I TRUSTED YOU D:”. Derek buys a frame for the paper and carefully laminates the post it note, hanging them both above the couch. He still chuckles every time he sees it.

Now, though- now Stiles is in Spanish 2. He’s resting his head on his textbook, absentmindedly watching the clock on the wall as Greenberg finally flips to the second page of the six-page test. He can almost hear the class groan as he does. Only   
Greenberg could spend half an hour on a matching test with half the answers filled in by Señor Holden.

Eventually, Greenberg does finish, albeit with five minutes left of class. That was forty-five minutes Stiles could’ve been sleeping, something he hadn’t done when Scott and Isaac had come over for a caffeine-fueled research slumber party ten hours beforehand. Unlike Isaac, who passed out at eleven and didn’t manage to research a single topic and ate his entire bag of cool ranch Doritos, Scott and Stiles were able to research until six in the morning. 

He spaces out while the teacher takes up the test, rubbing his heavy eyes with the sleeves of his hoodie, pleased as the scent of the familiar cologne floods his senses. He hadn’t seen Derek in a week, he realizes as he sits up and stretches. That had been when Stiles had stolen his hoodie from him. He didn’t even think Derek wore cologne. When he focuses again, the lights are off and there’s a music video on the projector, a thumping bass coming out of Señor Holden’s speakers.

“Bring in a translated copia of this song and get a bonus 100 tarea grade!” Señor yells over the loud music and the bell ringing. Stiles quickly copies down the name of the song, La Luz, down before shoving his textbook into his bag and heading out to second period. He almost trips in his haste to turn around and stare at the screen, clutching at the door. 

Scott comes up behind him, moshing his way into the classroom to the beat of the song.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, dancing over to Stiles after setting his bag down at his desk.

“He’s like a Spanish Derek,” Stiles blurts out, glancing back at the screen while he says it. Juanes now has a guitar and is dancing vigorously. 

Scott nods thoughtfully. “I can see that.”

He knows exactly who can get him the 105 he’s been longing for.

“Let that thought keep you warm all second period, Stiles, seeing as how you’re going to be late for it,” Señor calls from his office. Scott claps him on the shoulder before he bounds off for English.

Later that night as he opens the door to Derek’s loft, laptop bag slung haphazardly over his shoulder, he reconsiders getting Derek to translate the song. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees the frame and the laminated note. He gives the   
framed paper from a year ago a heated glare before he sets out to find the older man, determined.

“Derek?” he yells, jogging through the loft. 

He strains his ears and hears a muffled, “Go away, Genim.” He climbs the spiraling staircase up to Derek’s bedroom. 

“When did you learn Polish?” he asks as he jumps up onto Derek’s bed after setting his laptop bag onto the floor. Derek glares at him from where he’s sitting at his desk, translating a slew of Polish on the screen. He has a Polish-to-English   
dictionary cracked open next to him.

Derek closes the dictionary. “When did you start assuming I’m never busy enough to want to do your Spanish homework, and how do you think I can pronounce your name?”

Stiles shrugs, kicking off his shoes as he lays down on the bed. “Around the time you started thinking stalking kids at the high school was okay, and you’re just gifted.”

He can almost feel Derek roll his eyes. “If they made a mistake, I was close enough to help them fix it. It’s not safe here.”

Taking out his laptop, Stiles asks, “But can you translate La Luz?”

Derek throws his hands up in the air, groaning and tossing his head back. “You can just Google the English translation of that, Stiles!”

Stiles sputters, trying to vocalize his weak excuse into something tangible. “You’re so much more accurate!” he cries before he can fully think of the framed paper in the living room below. Derek sighs and buries his head in his hands, glasses   
mashing up against his face. After a tense moment, Derek pushes up from his desk and walks over to the bed, plopping down next to Stiles.

“I’ll double check the lyrics, and then you’re buying me Chinese.”

Stiles grins, satisfied. “Deal.”

The egg drop soup tastes like salty victory.

He’s nervous throughout the whole class the next day. Finally, when the bell rings, he jumps up to grab the homework Señor Holden is holding out to him. He gets a 105 and a smiley face on his homework. It feels like someone just set off fireworks in his intestines. The rest of the day is just an obstacle course he has to pass before he can wave the lyrics in Derek’s face.

As soon as the bell rings, he breaks every traffic law he can to get to Derek’s apartment. He barrels through the hall, almost knocking some poor old lady down and spews apologies as he keeps running. Finally, he gets to Derek’s door, and he nearly rips his arm out of place in his haste to find Derek.

“There!” he yelps as he barrels through Derek’s loft, running into him in the kitchen. He accidentally runs into Derek and gets a face full of his V-neck.

“What?” Derek turns around to where Stiles rammed into his back. He frowns when Stiles shoves the homework in his face and wraps his arms around him. He’s sweaty and has grass stains on his clothes from lacrosse practice. A rich, deep laugh worms itself out of Derek as he sees the paper properly.

“I’ll hang it right next to the other,” he jokes as he twists to hug Stiles back.

“Thank you thank you thank you, I’ll buy you Chinese for life, muchas gracias señor.”

Derek grins into Stiles’ hair.

“Anytime.”


End file.
